


What’s your damage?

by ElisAttack



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Blow Jobs, Chef Derek, Contractor Stiles, Damage Control AU, Derek has a bit of a handyman kink, Erica is a daughter of Zeus, Fanart, Humor, M/M, Marvel Universe, Mutual Pining, Sabotage, Superheroes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-07
Updated: 2016-08-07
Packaged: 2018-08-07 06:00:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7703284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElisAttack/pseuds/ElisAttack
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Instead of ‘when superheroes need help, they call us,’ Stiles thinks their slogan should be ‘when the superheroes inevitably screw up, we save the day.’  Because that’s what superheroes do, screw up, <em>inevitably.</em>  </p><p>Regular old folk think it’s the villains that go around declaring world domination and destroying cities, but it isn’t.  Stiles has worked for Damage Control going on six years, and if he’s learned one thing during those long days, and even longer nights of shoveling debris, and chopping trees split down the middle from lightning bolts, courtesy of thunder gods, it’s that the heroes do the most damage.</p><p>Or the one where Stiles and his crew are sent across the country to repair Derek’s bistro, and end up catching a saboteur.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What’s your damage?

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [А что сломали вам?](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8513818) by [HSTWOg](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HSTWOg/pseuds/HSTWOg), [vmaz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vmaz/pseuds/vmaz)



> The prompt for this challenge was Adaptations (movies/books/TV shows), we chose to do something loosely inspired by Marvel's Damage Control, a comic that ran for only a few issues, but is awesome nonetheless, (so awesome it's soon going to have its own sitcom.)
> 
> If you enjoyed this, you can vote for us [here](http://www.poll-maker.com/poll774626x7A844CF2-31), we're group 13 - The Sunny Squad!

 

 

 

Damage Control Inc. is the only division of S.H.I.E.L.D. a civilian couldn’t think of off the top of their head.  Well, except for the secret divisions that don’t officially exist on paper.  The government will continue to swear that Area 51 isn’t real.  Stiles doesn’t know why they’re still afraid of revealing the secret, considering he lives in a world where an alien army nearly destroyed New York.  But he digresses.  

The point is, Damage Control is given so much less attention—and funding—than it deserves, simply because they’re not as showy as the other divisions.  They don’t have nuclear reactors conveniently stored in everyday, wearable technology.  Neither do they have serums that turn regular old folk into super soldiers.  Instead, they perform a much needed and necessary service, a service the world could not do without, namely, damage control.

Even so, every time Damage Control shows up on scene, the superheroes never fail to laugh.  They aren’t given an iota of respect, even though they’re the ones cleaning up the mess.

Instead of ‘when superheroes need help, they call us,’ Stiles thinks their slogan should be ‘when the superheroes inevitably screw up, we save the day.’  Because that’s what superheroes do, screw up, _inevitably_.  Regular old folk think it’s the villains that go around declaring world domination and destroying cities, but _no_ , it isn’t.  Stiles has worked for Damage Control going on six years, and if he’s learned one thing during those long days, and even longer nights of shoveling debris, and chopping trees split down the middle from lightning bolts, courtesy of thunder gods, it’s that the heroes do the most damage.

Exhibit A.

Erica Reyes.  One of the many daughters of Zeus.  A demigoddess with an affinity for crossing swords—lethally—and an even greater affinity for smashing in the skulls of puny humans.  Ever since her parole officer had her join Damage Control—a community service sentence for doing damage of the permanent kind to a super villain, and for nearly leveling Stockholm—she’s been nothing but a pain in Stiles’ butt.  Literally.  One time she groped him so hard he developed a bruise the exact shape of Manhattan island.  Stiles would submit a harassment complaint if he wasn’t certain she would make his life a living hell if she ever found out.

“Stilinski!”  She cajoles, throwing an arm over his shoulders with enough force to make him wince, “How’s my favourite foreman?”

“Not a foreman yet,”  Stiles grumbles.  

They’re on their way to the briefing room, ready to receive new assignments, and Erica just _had_ to bring up what’s been bothering him for the longest time.  His promotion.  It’s been a long time coming, Stiles can admit.  He’s been working his way up through the ranks, slowly and steadily—He never had it in him to brown-nose like Jackson Whittemore, who made foreman last season.  That man has done nothing but kiss ass ever since he transferred.  Stiles would sooner send his career to the dogs than listen to a superior tell him to do something he knows is wrong.

“You’ll always be the foreman of my heart,”  she says sincerely, only to ruin the moment by pulling him close and giving him an enthusiastic noogie.

“Gee, thanks,”  he says sarcastically when she lets him go, pushing open the slightly dented doors of the conference room.  Considering the door is steel, the dents are most likely courtesy of Erica.  In fact, most of their maintenance budget goes back into fixing the things she breaks.  They usually end up breaking-even on the salary they would be paying her if she wasn’t working for free.

“Stiles!”  His best friend waits right at the door, a grin as wide as the ocean on his face, and two steaming hot coffees in hand.  He probably saw them coming from a mile away, giving him enough time to make Stiles’ and Erica’s drinks exactly as they like them.  Scott has minor psychic abilities.  It isn’t useful in the superhero department, considering how weak it is, and the fact that his asthma gets him winded easily.  But it is useful for finding people buried under collapsed structures, and when determining if a building is structurally sound enough for a team to go in and begin clearing rubble.

Stiles takes his coffee with a genuine smile.  Erica, takes hers with her usual sardonic smirk, before flouncing off to sit near the demolitions expert, Boyd, batting her lashes at the stoic man and flirting outrageously.  Stiles rolls his eyes and takes the seat Scott saved for him.

The door slams open and Stiles jumps nearly a foot in the air as Lydia Martin, electrician extraordinaire, strides into the room.  She’s the epitome of professionalism in her large heels, with an even larger binder tucked under her arm.  She slams it on the table, startling everyone until their attention is focused on her and her alone.

“Dogs with wings,”  she announces.

“Huh?”  Scott tilts his head to the side.  “Dogs don’t have wings.”

“These ones do.”  She taps a key on the presentation keyboard, and they wait for the screen to boot up.  It’s running slowly on Windows 95, which ruins the shock value of her previous words.  Stiles can tell it’s pissing her off, going by how hard she’s tapping her shoe, practically digging a hole in the linoleum.  Damage Control is the only division of S.H.I.E.L.D. still running 95.  He thinks the pest control guys at least have XP.

After the little pixel hourglass disappears, a picture of what appears to be a corgi with fluffy wings loads.  It looks like something straight out of a kitschy wall calendar an office worker would hang in their cubicle.  It just doesn’t seem like it could be an actual creature.

“Meet the Drendarians.”  Lydia waves her hand over the picture.  “They’re from a small planet in the Andromeda galaxy.  So far, we know only two things about them: they favour the taste of funnel cake, and have slime for drool.  Yesterday, they descended in their space crafts.”  She clicks to the next image revealing something that looks more like a phallic seashell, than a spacecraft.  “And proceeded to drool slime over a fairground, chasing after fairgoers and forcing them to drop their funnel cakes in order to feast.  Fortunately, the aptly named Moustache Man lives nearby.”  She flips to the next slide, revealing a man in a too tight spandex suit that leaves nothing to the imagination in terms of beer gut, and a dali-esque moustache that appears to be pasted on.  “He chased them onto a nearby boulevard and was able to stop them, but not before digging up half the street and completely destroying the front half of a bistro.”

“What happened to the flying dogs, were they hurt?”  Scott asks, eyes wide, his unconditional love of animals showing.

Lydia waves her hand, reassuring him.  “Someone called animal control.  They were able to lure them into cages using funnel cakes.  They’re sitting in the pound waiting for the mothership to come collect them.”  Scott sighs a breath of relief.

“While we’re left to clean up the mess, you mean,”  Stiles says, “Let me guess, Moustache Man will be of no help?”

Lydia scoffs.  “He wasn’t even the one who called us.  The bistro owner did.  He’s threatening to sue if we don’t get his business back in working order soon.”

Stiles drops his head on the table, groaning.  “Of course he is.”

***

Over the years, Stiles has gotten quite comfortable with flying economy.  He even developed tips for making the ride as painless as possible.   _One_ , piss before getting on the plane.   _Two_ , window seats are overrated.   _Three_ , the more noise canceling the headphones are, the better.   _Four_ , tiny bottles of alcohol are awesome, score as many of those as possible to get tipsy, but not uproariously drunk.  And _five_ , the most important one of all, don’t sit in front of a teenager.

Unfortunately, he doesn’t have much control over the last one.  

“Make him stoooop,”  Stiles whines at Scott, who’s sitting beside him, enjoying the latest blockbuster Hollywood has to offer on the little screen in front of him.  A well placed kick to his behind, courtesy of the teenager, makes Stiles whimper.  He tried glaring at the kid, but that only made his kicks so much harder and vehement.  It’s like he has a grudge against Stiles.  

Talking to the kid’s parent was useless, she just stared impassively at Stiles, like she was looking right through him, a tiny bottle of Jack in her crimson clawed hand.  The flight from New York to L.A. is only six hours long, but they had picked up the kid and his mom on the stopover, so thankfully he doesn’t have to suffer much longer.  Although, Stiles would have prefered not to suffer at all.

“Is there a problem here?”  A woman asks and Stiles looks up to see a flight attendant with long, flowing locks and the most beautiful seafoam eyes he’s ever seen in his life.  Every other attendant that had walked by, ignored him, even though they had clearly seen the kid kick his seat.  Stiles can’t blame them, he wouldn’t want to deal with a teenager if he didn’t have to.  But this goddess of a flight attendant has _volunteered_ to help him.  Stiles stares at her like she’s a life raft in the middle of a stormy ocean.  

She winks at him, and Stiles thinks he falls just a little bit in love.  “Sir,”  she addresses the kid who looks up from his tiny screen.  His eyes widen, in the face of her beauty, and his face rushes with blood.  

“Y-yes?”  he stammers.

“The gentleman in front of you is trying to sleep, would you mind not kicking his seat?”  She asks sweetly, batting her eyelashes.  “If you promise to stop, I might be able to dig up a portable gaming console of your choosing?”

The kid’s mouth drops open.  “A Playstation Vita?”

The flight attendant taps a finger on her jaw, as if she’s thinking.  “Yes, I do believe we have one of those.”

Stiles has never seen a spine unfurl so fast.  The kid sits straight up, takes his feet of the back of Stiles seat, and even sends Stiles an apology, though the attendant didn’t ask him to do so.  She walks to the back and returns with a small gaming console, a pair of those fancy headphones all the kids drool after, and a cup of camomile tea she hands to Stiles with a smile.  “So you can sleep,”  She explains.

“Thanks,”  Stiles says happily, singing her praises in his head.  

She smiles.  “You’re very welcome.”

Stiles sleeps like a baby for the rest of the flight.

***

“Honestly, I don’t know the first thing about resurfacing a road,”  Isaac the intern says with a frown.  He’s still talking funny with the brace on his nose from the incident last week, and it makes Stiles want to crack up, but he contains himself.  The last time he laughed, Isaac had pouted for days.

“Don’t worry.”  Stiles claps Isaac on the back as they survey the destruction around them.  The road is dug up so deep, the dirt underneath is visible, not to mention there are huge chunks of tar missing.  Tar that Moustache Man picked up and flung in the direction of the poor bistro, completely missing the flying dogs, but creating quite a lot of property damage.  Oh, and he can’t forget about the goo.  There’s puddles of gooey drool _everywhere_ , it’s sticky and awful and seems to adhere to everything like superglue.  “We’re here to clear away the rubble and repair the bistro, we’re leaving the resurfacing to the city.”

Stiles turns to the bistro, the sign declaring the building ‘Hale’s Bistro,’ hanging on by a thread.  Stiles takes a deep breath and strides forward, his team at his heels.  This is the part he hates the most—talking to the civilians.  Give him a bridge torn in half, a train thrown off its tracks, anything but talking to people whose livelihoods they’re supposed to fix.  But, it’s one of the duties that comes with his promotion, so he has to suck it up.

The owner waits for them outside the bistro, hands on his hips, wearing a scrowl that could give the Hulk a run for his money.

“You’re late,”  he says, dark brows dipping even further.

Stiles frowns, looking down at his clipboard and checking.  “Mr. Hale, we’re right on time,”  Stiles says, puzzled.  They’re thirty minutes ahead of schedule.

Hale scoffs.  “I told you assholes to show up right after that poor excuse for a hero ruined my life, or I would sue.  I gave you an hour.  It’s been two days.”

Stiles blinks, lips thinning out in displeasure.  They don’t deserve this.  It takes time to hire machinery and move a team across a country.  Hale’s lucky they didn’t show up the week after.  “Yeah, I’m sorry, but a wormhole machine is not possible with our budget,”  Stiles says sarcastically.

“So, Damage Control could only afford the lot of you?”  Hale sneers, looking Stiles over from his tippy toes to the hard hat on his head.  “Pathetic.”

Stiles marches forward until he gets right in Hale’s face.  Scott tries to grab him to hold him back but Stiles pushes him off.  “I know you’re pissed off and afraid, and that gives you the right to be cranky.”  Stiles pokes Hale’s chest with a finger, and the man raises his brows in surprise.  “But that does not give you the right to take your anger out on the people who only want to help you.”

Hale looks like he’s struggling to say something, but can’t decide which words to use.  Eventually he spits, “Look at what happened the last time someone tried to ‘help’ me.”  He gestures to his ruined bistro.  “Excuse me if I’m not looking too kindly on acts of charity.”

“This is no act of charity, Mr. Hale.  This is our job, and we are the best at what we do.”

Hale sighs, visibly collapsing in on himself.  There are bags under his eyes and he looks like he hasn’t slept a wink in days.  Stiles feels bad for him, and he knows he shouldn’t be this harsh, especially not to someone who is under so much stress, but Stiles finds it hard to keep his mouth shut sometimes.  He doesn’t do well with people insulting him and the people he works with.

“Mr. Hale.”  Lydia speaks up, moving to stand beside Stiles.  “Is there some place you can stay while we fix up your business?”

Hale shakes his head sadly.  “I live in the apartment upstairs, it wasn’t damaged too badly in the fight, but I’m worried about the structural integrity of the building, I don’t want it collapsing down on my head.  I’m camping out on my little sister’s couch.”

Stiles eyes the building, noting a few of the pillars have jagged cracks up the side.  Hale made a good call.

Lydia nods her head.  “We’ll get to work immediately, and keep you updated.  Do you have any more questions?”

“Just the one,”  Hale says, looking dejected, “Do you think you’ll finish within the week?”

Lydia looks over the building from top to bottom and grimaces.  That must be enough for Hale because he hangs his head and wanders off without another word, climbing into a black Camaro and driving off.

“That poor guy,”  Scott says.  Stiles can’t help but agree.

***

They work through most of the day, surveying the extent of the damage, and clearing out rubble before setting up supports to hold the ceiling as they work.  Erica does most of the heavy lifting, moving beams out of the way, while Scott goes in with a Bobcat, shifting out the smaller rubble.  

Stiles is proud of his team.  They’ve worked together for so long, so they know what each member is best at, and they organize their strategy accordingly.  They don’t even need Stiles, and that’s what makes his new job that much more rewarding.

Harris, their old foreman, used to stand off to the side and shout orders, Stiles is way more hands on.  He talks to his crew, and listens to their concerns.  He instructs Isaac on what can be salvaged and what is a lost cause, and has him follow Boyd around as he knocks down ruined drywall.  He helps Scott organize piles of rubble, digging through it for items that Hale might want back.  Knick knacks and other things, including a photograph of a couple surrounded by three adorable children—two girls and a boy with brows so thick, he could only be Hale.  It was obviously taken outside the bistro, the same sign hanging above the five of them.  It’s how Stiles knows they have to repair the sign, and not scrap it to buy a new one.  It probably holds sentimental value for Hale.

Stiles is a good foreman, he works hard and gets the job done.  Which means he tires quicker.  By the time the sun sets, a distant ring of fire on the horizon, the long shadows of palm trees cast along the boulevard, Stiles is feeling dead tired, and slightly peckish.     

“Good day today.”  Lydia links their arms.  “Want to go out for drinks?  I’m buying the first round.”

Stiles grins.  “Well, I can’t turn down that offer.”

There’s an izakaya conveniently located right across the street, and the crew pushes through the doors to find a surprisingly crowded room, considering it’s a Wednesday night.

A teenager wearing an apron with the name of the izakaya, Ōkami, right across the front, smiles at them slyly like a devious fox.  Stiles requests a booth, his knees aching too much to sit at the low lying tables, and the teenager nods before saying cryptically, “Anything for the people helping us get more business.”

Stiles orders a Sapporo, but is unable to fully enjoy it, even as the crew jokes around, having fun after a tiring day.  The hostess’ words confuse him and he can’t seem to leave it alone.

“Lydia?”  Stiles leans across the booth, getting her attention.  She turns away from Erica, taking a sip from her sake cocktail, finger lightly tracing the ring of condensation left behind on the table.  “How could we be helping Ōkami get business?”

She sends him a look as if questioning his intelligence.  “Why do you think?  Their biggest competitor is closed for repairs, repairs that we’re doing.”

Stiles pouts.  “That’s not our fault.”

“Do you think they care?”  Lydia snorts.  “They’ve probably been waiting for this day for ages.  The whole street is residential—prime, pricey real estate.  Yet, Hale’s Bistro and Ōkami are the only food related businesses nearby.  They must be fighting tooth and nail to get the most customers, and now, Hale is losing.  Going by how crowded this place is, they’re poaching all his regulars.”  

Stiles folds his arms over his chest, sinking back in the seat, feeling guilty, even though he has no reason to be.

***

The next day, Stiles is shoveling goo into a dumpster when Hale makes an appearance.

“One of your minions is wearing high heels,”  Hale states, startling Stiles and making him turn around so fast he nearly would have fallen back into the goo if it wasn’t for Hale grabbing his hand.

“Thanks, Mr. Hale.”  Stiles pulls his arm out of Hale’s grip, adjusting his clothes in an effort to preserve whatever dignity he has left.

Hale shrugs off Stiles’ shortness.  “My father was Mr. Hale, my name’s Derek.”

Stiles ignores the fact that _Derek_ used the past term when referring to his father, and instead focuses on a safer topic.  “That would be Erica.  She’s a demigoddess, and could lift steel girders with a pinky if she wanted to, I’m not too concerned about what she wears to work.”

“Oh.”  Derek scratches the back of his neck sheepishly.  “Well... I… umm just wanted to apologize for what I said yesterday.  I was feeling irritated because I saw a customer I’ve been serving since before I even inherited the bistro walk into Satomi’s place.”

“Ōkami?”

“Yeah.”  Derek sighs like the weight of the world is on his shoulders.  The bags under his eyes look even darker, if possible.

Stiles leans on his shovel.  “You’re not sleeping very well, are you?”  He asks sympathetically.

Derek shakes his head.  “Cora’s dorm room is small, her couch even smaller and lumpy.  I haven’t slept this bad since I woke to my sleepwalking roommate trying to light my textbooks on fire.  I was paranoid for weeks.”

Stiles chuckles.  “I can imagine.”

Derek cracks a small smile, and Stiles’ heart jumps in his chest.  Derek has the most adorable bunny teeth, and it’s making Stiles _feel_ things.  “I don’t think I caught your name?”  Derek asks, voice almost coy.

“Stiles.”  He sticks out his hand for Derek to shake.  “And your apology is accepted.”

Derek sighs a breath of relief.  “Thanks.  If you hadn’t accepted it, Cora would have bitten my head off.”

Stiles quirks a brow, amused.  “Your sister _made_ you apologize to me?”

Derek blinks and quickly backtracks, shaking his head.  “No, no, I _wanted_ to, but was feeling a bit nervous.  Cora provided proper motivation.”

Stiles licks his lips, trying hard not to crack a wide grin.  “By threatening you with a beheading via sharp teeth?”

Derek nods, eyes dropping to Stiles’ mouth before flushing behind his beard and all the way up to his ears.  Stiles has to physically hold himself back from doing a jig.  

Stiles is covered in flying dog drool, a pair of toothpaste green coveralls, and a layer of fine brown dust, yet Derek is still checking him out.  Considering that Derek looks like he could be on the cover of a fashion magazine, Stiles takes that as a compliment of the highest degree.

Stiles leans closer, shifting his hip to the side in a perfect example of a careless yet provocative pose.  See, he can flirt too.  “Want me to show you what we’ve accomplished so far?”

Derek nods again and Stiles grins like the sun.  “Let’s get you a hard hat and a pair of boots.”

After Derek is dressed to safety standards, Stiles takes him into the bistro.  They’ve cleared out all the rubble so the wooden floor is visible underneath.  

Lydia is up on a ladder, checking the electrical, as Stiles walks past, explaining to Derek each of their jobs.  “Lydia’s our electrician.  She’s mighty smart, so don’t ever get on her bad side, or she’ll find a creative way to shock you six ways from Sunday.”  Lydia winks and Derek nearly stumbles over her tool bag on the floor.  

Stiles points to where Scott and Isaac are mortaring the red brick wall, fixing the massive holes in it.  “Scott and Isaac are general labourers.  Isaac’s my intern, we’re showing him the ropes before he goes off and joins some big-ass contracting firm,”  he raises his voice, making sure Isaac can hear him, “Like a traitor!”

Isaac flips him the bird, before shouting right back,  “Don’t worry, I won’t soon forget the man who tortured me for months!”

“Attaboy!”  Stiles smiles proudly.

Derek leans closer, whispering in Stiles’ ear, “What happened to his face?”  Looking pointedly at the brace still on Isaac’s nose.

Stiles grimaces, whispering back, “Broken nose after the coconut incident, don’t mention it though, he’s still touchy about it.”  Derek nods solemnly.  

Stiles leads Derek further into the bistro where he finds Boyd with a jigsaw, cutting out sheets of plywood.  Erica leans over the bench he’s working on, ‘helping.”  As in she’s unzipped enough of her coveralls to make her breasts look like they’re in real danger of falling out.  Stiles would intervene if it was anyone but Boyd on the receiving end, afraid it would lead to someone losing a thumb.  But Boyd is used to Erica’s antics and continues on unaffected.

Derek stares at her with wide eyes, probably at her apparent lack of safety glasses while so close to flying wood chips.  Stiles grabs his elbow, pulling him along.  “Demigoddess, remember?  She can survive a few splinters, though, she’ll moan like a demon about it until she heals a few seconds later.”  

They end up in the kitchen, and Stiles leans against the counter, facing Derek who stands around awkwardly like he doesn’t know what to do with himself.  Stiles smiles reassuringly.  “We inspected the kitchen, checked the gas line and the pipes, but nothing was damaged.  So you don’t have to worry about that.”

“My kitchen’s fine?”  Derek asks hopefully, eyes looking slightly wet.  Stiles looks away shyly, shuffling his feet, and scratching the back of his head, unsure what to do if Derek starts crying.  He’s awkward around crying people, unsure if they want a hug, or if he’ll just get punched in the balls if he tries.  Fortunately, only a single tear trails down Derek’s face, a tear that is quickly dashed away.

“Yeah, it’s better than fine, dude.”  Stiles jokes,  “Do you even know what I would do with an industrial sized toaster oven like this?   _All_ the pizza pockets.”

Derek lets out a short laugh.  “You’re atrocious.”

“Hey!”  Stiles remarks, mockingly offended, “Don’t disparage the mighty pizza pocket, they saved my life in college.”

“No one but college students should eat them, they’re offensive to everything that food stands for.”

Stiles grins, leaning back on his elbows and crossing his legs.  “Yeah, big guy, and what does food stand for?”

Derek steps closer, right into Stiles space, an unreadable look on his face.  He’s so close, they share breaths for one long moment before Derek reaches past him, grabbing something off the shelf.  A frying pan.  

“Move your butt and I’ll show you.”  

***

Derek cooks a feast worthy of the gods—according to Erica—as she shoves flapjack after flapjack into her mouth like her stomach leads to another dimension.  For all that Stiles knows it probably does.  He can’t blame her though, Derek’s flapjacks are like something straight out of a cooking show.  Presented on crisp white plates and drizzled with a chocolate hazelnut sauce that Stiles watched Derek make from scratch, the flapjacks are the best things he’s ever eaten since Scott and Allison’s wedding.

The crew is sitting out by the side of the street in dented and duct taped chairs, watching cars fly by on the one boulevard lane that was relatively unscathed.  Scott’s nursing a food baby, patting it like a loving father, and eyeing the chair holding the rest of the flapjacks like he’s already planning on making another one.

Stiles runs his finger over the last trail of chocolate sauce on his plate, closing his eyes and licking it off, savouring every drop.  When he opens his eyes again, he catches Derek looking at him, smiling so hard, his bunny teeth make an appearance.

“Where’d you learn to cook like that?”  Stiles asks him, curious.

Derek looks down at his empty plate, fiddling with the fork and knife.  “My mom taught me.”  He finally admits.  “She established the bistro, and when she married my dad, they ran it together.  I grew up here,”  Derek explains, voice reminiscent, like he’s thinking of fond memories.  “After the accident, it was willed to me, and I’ve been looking after it ever since.  Through the gentrification of the neighbourhood, all the way until Satomi moved in and made it her mission in life to steal all my customers.”

“She’s trying to make a living, just as you are,”  Lydia says, cutting daintily into her flapjack.

Derek shakes his head.  “We don’t even serve the same kinds of food.  She sells Japanese drinks and appetizers, I sell Western main course meals, yet she refuses to work with me to coordinate our businesses to make sure both of us succeed.  If I have specials on a Monday, she’ll come up with better deals on the same day.  It’s like she’s trying to drive me out, and I don’t know why.”

“You must have done _something_ to piss her off,”  Scott says unhelpfully.  

Derek frowns, crossing his arms.  “I’ve done nothing to deserve her wrath, she hates me for no reason.  I sure as hell didn’t start it.”

“Why don’t you just ask, and maybe apologize if you did do something?”  Lydia suggests.  

Derek works his jaw, before sighing like it didn’t even occur to him.  “It’s a bit too late for that, isn’t it?”

Lydia scoffs.  “Oh, honey, OneRepublic doesn’t know shit, it’s never too late to apologize.”

***

Stiles is helping Boyd construct the new bar when Derek walks back into the bistro, smelling strongly of sake and looking like a drowned dog.

“Shit,”  Stiles says, approaching Derek carefully, handing him a roll of paper towel.  “Are you okay, dude?”

Derek tears off a wad, wiping the sake out of his hair and off his face.  “I went to talk to Satomi.”

Stiles grimaces.  “I’m guessing it didn’t go well?”

Derek looks at him with a deadpan expression.  “She threw a cup of sake in my face.”

Lydia walks past, sniffing delicately.  “Smells expensive too, she must really hate you.”

Derek hangs his head, sniffing unhappily.  Stiles would’ve pulled him into a hug if he wasn’t covered in wood shavings.  “Did she at least say what she was mad about?”

Derek purses his lips.  “She accused me of pursuing her daughter, being a creep, and for not taking no for an answer.  But I didn’t do any of that, I don’t even know her daughter’s name!  Just that she works as Ōkami’s hostess.”

Stiles recalls the teenager who seated them yesterday.  From the devious look in her eyes to the way she spoke, like she would gladly eat them alive.  She didn’t seem like the type to run to her mother if someone was harassing her.  Stiles imagines she would gladly take care of them herself.

Something smells fishy, and Stiles intends to find out what it is.

Their hotel’s only a block away, so Stiles gives Derek his room card, letting him get cleaned up.

After the crew has finished for the day, and they’re back at the hotel, Stiles knocks on his door, waiting for Derek to open up.  He hears a “coming!” followed by a loud crack and Derek cussing up a storm.  Stiles snorts, wondering what travesty Derek’s committing against his hotel room.  He’s about to voice his concerns when Derek opens the door, only to stop in his tracks when Stiles sees he’s wearing nothing but a short towel that looks like it was ripped right in half.  Stiles doesn’t think it’s even covering his butt properly, going by the funny dance Derek is doing when Stiles walks in to prevent him from getting a look at the far side of the moon.

“You okay?”  Stiles asks, amused, making sure his eyes stay fixed on Derek’s face, as they have an awkward nearly naked conversation.

Derek nods his head, eyes wide and lips pursed.  He looks like a guilty dog whose owners came home to find shredded toilet paper scattered all over the living room, and the dog with a bit of paper clinging to his muzzle.  “I may have broken the bathtub?”

“Is that a question?”

Derek shakes his head.  “No, I definitely broke the bathtub.”

“Oh jeez.”  Stiles runs a hand through his hair.  “Okay, show me.”

Derek takes him to the bathroom, and shows him that the diverter valve refuses to stay up to turn the shower on, even when the water is running.  Stiles sighs.  “There’s an allen key kit by the door, get it for me, and for heaven’s sake, put on some pants, I’m sure I have some sweats that’ll fit you.”

Derek returns with the kit—obscene towel free—wearing a pair of Stiles’ sweats that are almost bursting at the seams on him.  Stiles tries to ignore the way they fit terribly around the crotch area.  And when Stiles says terribly, he means distractingly.

Derek sits on the edge of the tub, watching Stiles work.  Five minutes later, Stiles has the diverter working again.  Derek looks at him like he’s a lifesaver.  

Stiles is packing his tools away when Derek jokes, “Where were you when I flooded my apartment last spring?”

Stiles snorts, rolling his eyes.  “You’re just a lost cause aren’t you?  How’d you even do this?”  Stiles points to the spout.  “It was working fine in the morning.”

Derek shrugs.  “You knocked while I was in the shower, and when I hurried to get out, I tripped and my towel wrapped around it, probably yanked it out of its socket or something.”

“You could have asked me to wait.”

Derek looks at him, eyes so soft, it makes Stiles’ heart flutter in his chest.  He swallows audibly when Derek says, “Nah, I couldn’t.”  

Aw hell.

***

Shit hits the fan a few days later when Satomi comes storming into the bistro, demanding to know where Derek is.

Stiles knows he’s picking up his older sister from the airport, but he isn’t about to tell Satomi that, not when she’s brimming with barely controlled rage.  Stiles lies and says he has no idea, sending a quick text message for Derek to stay away for the rest of the day.

After Derek had broken his bathtub, and just before he left to return to Cora’s, he had given Stiles his number, strongly implying that Stiles could use it freely outside of business purposes.  And Stiles has gladly taken him up on the offer.  Texting Derek nonsense puns, knock knock jokes, and pictures of the crew getting up to their usual funny business.  Derek had even sent him an unexpected ‘lol’ when Stiles had sent a picture of Scott fast asleep, draped over the Bobcat, a seagull sitting on his chest, nibbling at his uneaten sandwich.

It’s awesome.  Derek’s sarcastic and witty and actually a very good conversationalist if Stiles works hard at it.  And boy, has Stiles been working at it.  He likes Derek.  Stiles really, really likes him, in a high school note passing circle yes or no do you like me sort of way.  Stiles can tell Derek likes him back, physically at least.  He’s seen the way Derek looks at him when he’s working, covered in dirt and god-knows-what.  But hey, everyone has their kinks, if Derek’s is handyman in coveralls, that’s his prerogative.

Stiles wants to ask Derek out, and the only thing stopping him, is the fact that they live on opposite sides of the country.  Whatever they might have, it won’t last, considering it’s all so new, and Stiles will be leaving soon anyway.  So Stiles doesn’t ask Derek out, even though he really wants to.  He figures it would suck more to get a chance at something, only for it to slip through his fingers, than to never have it in the first place.

Stiles is pulled out of his thoughts by the sound of his phone ringing.   _Derek_.  Stiles steps out of the bistro into the hot L.A. sun, away from the loud noise banging of Scott’s nail gun, taking the call with a “Hey, Derek.”

“Stiles,”  Derek says, voice sounding winded like he’s been running,  “Did she say what she wanted?”

“Satomi?  No.”  Stiles leans against the building in the shade of the newly restored sign, painted and repaired by Stiles himself.  “She sounded awful mad, though.”

“Shit.”  Derek hisses.

Stiles frowns, especially when he catches Satomi glaring at him through the izakaya window across the street, which, _rude_.  He turns to face the bistro, just in case she can read lips, better to be safe than sorry.  “Everything okay?”

“I _may_ have confronted her daughter yesterday about what she’s trying to do.  And Satomi  _may_ have walked in on me yelling at her,”  Derek admits quietly.

“And by _may_ , you mean…?”

“It definitely happened.”

“Derek, what the fuck?!”  Stiles yells into the phone.

“I thought I could talk to her, find out why she wants to destroy my business.”  Derek explains hurriedly.  “How was I supposed to know Satomi would be there?”

“Uh, maybe because she _owns_ the damned place?”

“ _Whatever_ ,”  Derek says childishly and Stiles can almost picture the pout on his face.

“Did you at least find out why she’s after your guts?”

“She said it was because my customers give good tips.”

Stiles waits for Derek to continue, to say something more like, ‘and I accidentally ran over her cat and she swore vengeance,’ or ‘we went to the same culinary school and I made better radish roses than she did,’  but he doesn’t, the line stays silent.

“Is that it?”  Stiles asks, breaking the silence, still waiting on the punch line.

“Yeah, she’s been saving up for tap dancing lessons.  Apparently, they’re really expensive.”

“What kind of fresh nonsense?”  Stiles mutters under his breath.

“Do you think if I offer to pay for them she’ll-”

“No.”  Stiles shakes his head in the face of the ridiculousness that Derek’s suggesting.  “You’re not rewarding her bratty behaviour.”

“But-”

“ _No_ , Derek.”  Stiles emphasizes.  “We’ll find some other way, okay?  I’ll make you wear a wire if I have to, but you’re not giving that girl one cent of your hard earned money.  Do I make myself clear?”

Derek sigh heavily.  “Yeah, Stiles.”

“Okay,”  Stiles says cheerfully, tone taking a complete one-eighty,  “So when do I get to meet your sisters?”  Apparently, the answer is never because Derek shudders and hangs up the phone without even a by your leave.  Stiles nods his head.  “Fair enough.”

***

In the end, Lydia saves the day.  Unsurprisingly, since she is a goddess in everything but name.

Stiles discusses Derek’s dilemma with her while she runs the wiring for the lights, holding onto her ladder, even though she hasn’t needed a spotter in years.  Eventually, she pulls her head out of the ceiling, a small smudge of dirt on her nose, but hair as perfect as ever.  “I think I know what you need.”

The next day, Stiles drives the rental to the hotel where Derek’s staying with his other sister, Laura, after Cora’s roommate got sick of him and kicked him out.  They decided it would be best that Stiles drives him to the bistro, considering the Camaro is conspicuous as heck, and Satomi could probably hear it from a mile away.

Derek waits for him in the hotel lobby, a vaguely recognizable woman standing by his side.  

She takes one long look at him, and her face lights in a smile.  Stiles is still trying to place her when she skips forward and exclaims, “Bambi eyes!”  She turns to Derek.  “This is the guy I was telling you about.”

 _Oh_ , now Stiles remembers.  She’s the flight attendant who helped him and stopped that kid from kicking his seat.  Noting the familial resemblance between them, Stiles figures she’s one of Derek’s rumoured sisters.  

Stiles quirks a brow.  “Why would you tell your brother about me?  It’s not like you met me under interesting circumstances.”

She smirks and Stiles catches Derek staring at her with a panicked look in his eye.  “Sweetie, it’s because you’re _exactly_ Derek’s type.”

Stiles can feel himself turn redder than a tomato.  He sputters, pointedly not meeting Derek’s eye as he tries to find something to say in return, but it’s like his brain isn’t working anymore.  He can do nothing but stare incredulously at Laura.

“I call shotgun!”  Laura exclaims, running out the revolving door, leaving an awkward silence in her wake.

“I- uh, guess we should follow.”  Stiles points his thumb over his shoulder where Laura just went.  Stiles turns and marches straight out the door, Derek following silently after.

***

The team watches from the newly installed front window as Derek approaches Ōkami.  Derek peeks his head in for a second, seems to say something to whomever is inside, and leaves, walking over to the alleyway by the side.  Stiles holds his breath as Satomi’s daughter—whose name is Kimiko, according to Laura—steps outside, a pleased-as-pie grin on her face and confidence in her step as she walks into the alley.  She and Derek seem to exchange words.  Derek is subdued and pleading, while Kimiko is acerbic and biting.  Kimiko storms off after a bit, slamming Ōkami’s door behind her with enough force to rattle the glass.

And then Derek gives them a thumbs up.

Stiles throws his fist into the air, just as Laura bear hugs Lydia, lifting her fully off the ground and spinning her around before setting her back down again, not even a little bit frazzled.

Derek walks into the bistro, already pulling the wire off his chest with an unpleasant expression as the medical tape tugs at the many hairs on his pecs.  Stiles doesn’t drool, he swears.  Derek hands the wire to Lydia when he finally wrestles it off.  

“I’ll send you an mp3,”  she says, taking it with a smile.

***

Satomi keeps leaving apology gift baskets on the front step of the bistro, and after the fifth time Scott tripped over one, flopping face first down the stairs, Stiles had to admit they’re starting to get in the way.  

It’s been nearly two weeks, and they’re completing the finishing touches—painting the walls, staining the tables, screwing in the light fixtures—menial work that keeps Stiles’ mind focused on thoughts that aren’t the fact that they’re leaving for New York in a few short days.

In the end, he waxes the floor so thoroughly Scott and Isaac host a sliding competition.  Erica wins, because of course she does.

On the Saturday before they leave, and the night before Derek is set to reopen the bistro, Derek texts him to come over, saying he found a leaky pipe in the kitchen.  Stiles is tempted to ask Scott to go in his place, since he knows more about plumbing than Stiles does, but something tells him that Derek called _him_ for a reason.

The walk over is unsurprisingly uneventful.  The sun is just about to set, casting a pink glow over the whole boulevard, palm trees blowing in the breeze.  Just like his first night here.  Over the past two weeks Stiles has learned that while L.A. has its own share of colourful characters, it holds no dice to New York.  He’s going to miss the relative quiet, and access to a car.  He’s not looking forward to riding the Metro to work again.

He waves to Satomi from Ōkami’s front window, seeing her manning the hostess table.  Satomi cut down Kimiko’s hours substantially, guaranteeing that she’s not going to get her tap dancing lessons anytime soon.   _Good_ , after what she put Derek through, she deserves no less.

Stiles cracks open the door of the bistro, finding the dining tables covered in glowing tealight candles, the air smelling faintly like tomatoes and basil.  Stiles’ stomach grumbles.

“I guess that’s a compliment, if anything.”  Derek says, stepping out from behind the bar, two glasses of red wine in hand.  “Hi, I’m glad you came.”

Stiles smiles, confused, taking the glass from Derek, playing along when he clinks his against Stiles.  “What’s going on?”  Stiles asks.

“And here I thought you were smart,”  Derek jokes.

“Insulting me will get you nowhere.”  Stiles sips his wine, eyes widening in realization.  He knows next to nothing about wine, but even he can tell it’s a really good vintage.  “Is this a date?  Have you low-key asked me out on a date?”

Derek smirks.  “What do you think?”  Reaching out, he takes Stiles’ hand pulling him further into the bistro, towards the kitchen.  Derek pushes open the swinging doors and Stiles gets a lungfull of whatever he’s got cooking.  It smells so damn good, Stiles thinks he might be drooling.

“Scott told me you were a fan of eggplant parmesan.”  Derek grabs a kitchen cloth and opens the broiler, pulling out a pan of the most heavenly scented food he has ever had the pleasure of being near in his life.  

“Fuck, that looks good,”  Stiles remarks in wonder.

Derek offers him a fork, biting his bottom lip in what could only be nervousness.  “You should try it before the cheese solidifies.”  Stiles doesn’t know why Derek’s nervous.  He’s a brilliant chef.  There’s no way the dish could be anything less than amazing.

Stiles takes the fork and digs out a piece, the cheese trailing after in a long string.  He meets Derek’s eye as he takes the first bite, moaning in pleasure.  Derek flushes up to his ears and Stiles can’t help but want to see him look like that more often.

“You like it?”  Derek asks shyly.

“Derek, I _love_ it.”

Derek smiles and reaches for Stiles’ fork, picking up some more food, holding it up for Stiles to eat.  When he does, he makes sure he licks clean every last piece of food from the fork.  Stiles watches, pleased, as Derek’s throat bobs, swallowing heavily.  “I’m glad.”

“Hmm?”  Stiles licks his lips clean of tomato sauce.

“ _Uh_ , that you like my food.”  Derek’s stares at him, his eyes dark, sea foam green almost completely consumed by pupil.

“Mmm, yeah.”  Stiles reaches for Derek and grabs him by the collar, hauling him in.  “You gonna feed me some more?”

“Do you want a sip of wine instead?”  Derek whispers, the space between them practically nonexistent.

“I could use some wine,”  Stiles says, lashes fluttering, “But I’d rather have you.”  Instead of picking up the glass, he hauls Derek in for a kiss, settling his hands on Derek’s jaw, maneuvering him just the way he likes.  Stiles’ thumb caresses the corner of Derek’s soft lips, kissing him slowly, easing him into it.  At least until Derek seems to get with the program and pulls Stiles in, until their chests press together.  

His lips slot against Stiles’, hard and insistent, and he tugs at Stiles bottom lip until his mouth opens in a moan.  The feel of Derek sliding his tongue against his, sets his heart aflutter.  Derek pushes closer until their hips slot, and Stiles lets out a loud moan.

Stiles watches, dazed, as Derek drops the fork when he feels what’s going down in Stiles’s pants, or in this case, _up_.  “Fuck, Stiles, you’re hard.”

Stiles blinks.  He looks down at the situation in his pants, nodding.  

“Yeah, everything turns me on, to be quite honest, even honey,”  Stiles admits sheepishly before diving back in, biting at Derek’s neck.

“I have honey in the back,”  Derek gasps when Stiles licks a long stripe up his neck.

“I don’t like sticky things during sexy times,”  Stiles mutters, laying soft kisses along Derek’s magnificent throat.  Seriously, his neck is amazing, Stiles could sing odes to its muscular goodness.

“I do.”  Derek bites his lip, looking up at Stiles from under his lashes, before his eyes shift downwards and suddenly, Stiles knows exactly what’s coming.  

Haha, _coming_.

Derek drops to his knees and Stiles exhales a long, shuddering breath.  “Okay, yeah, I guess we’re doing that now, cool, I can be cool like a cu—oh my fucking god!”  Stiles exclaims, scrabbling at the counter behind him, nails digging into the stainless steel like claws.  “Holy fucking fucks!”

Derek pulls off of him with an obscene popping noise, brows dipped in a frown.  “Really, Stiles, could you be any louder?”

“Just take the compliment for what it is.”  Stiles whimpers when Derek rolls his eyes and dives back in.  Stiles slams his fist against the counter, rattling a pile of plates only a few feet away.  “Sonofabitch!”  He exclaims when Derek does something particularly acrobatic with his tongue, while looking up at Stiles, meeting his eyes.  It’s like Derek knows exactly what gets Stiles weak at the knees.

“Don’t talk about my mother like that,”  Derek jokes and Stiles rolls his eyes.

“Fuck you.”

“Not yet.”  Derek grins, biting at his inner thigh.

“Oh my god!”  Stiles groans, vision going white as he comes.

Later, after Stiles returns the favour and makes Derek come in his pants like a teenager, they sit at one of the booths in the front of the bistro, eating lukewarm eggplant parmesan.  Stiles wears a spare employee tee, after getting come all over his shirt and in Derek’s hair—nothing a little bit of water couldn’t take care of.

“You know.”  Derek trails a pinky along the rim of his wineglass, deliberately not looking at Stiles.  “I hear Skype sex is amazing if the participants invest in a good enough webcam.”

Stiles reaches across the table and takes Derek’s hand in his.  “You want to do the long distance thing, then?”

“I like you, Stiles.  You’re smart, funny, and look so fucking hot in coveralls.”  Derek runs his thumb along Stiles’ knuckles.  “I’m willing to try, if you are?”

Stiles stares incredulously at Derek “You think my toothpaste coveralls are hot?  Damn, you really do have a handyman kink.”

Derek’s ears turn slightly red, and he mutters, “Shut up, Stiles, and answer the question.”

Stiles throws his head back and laughs, wholeheartedly.  

Wiping tears out of the corner of his eyes he looks at Derek.  Really looks at him.  From his thick, black hair, to the wrinkles at the corners of his seafoam eyes, to his adorable little bunny teeth.  Stiles looks and thinks he would not regret anything more than letting this man go.  

It will be difficult, there’s no doubt about that.  Long distance relationships are notorious for flopping.  Shit happens, eyes wander, people spend so much time staring at a pixelated version of their significant other, they end up not knowing what to do with them when they finally have them in flesh and blood.  That could all go down, everything could fuck up and he’ll be left broken-hearted.   But, Stiles was wrong when he thought it would hurt more to lose Derek, than to never have him in the first place.  If he never gives them a try, Stiles will regret it for the rest of his life, and that’s a fact.  He won’t ever know anything, unless he _tries_.

“We could get matching webcams,”  Stiles says finally,  “I’m thinking pink or blue, what do you prefer?”

Derek sighs a breath of relief, all the tension flowing out of his shoulders.  “How about a compromise, purple?”

“I don’t know, Derek,”  Stiles says mischievously, “I think webcams only come in black or white.”

Derek looks at him with a deadpan expression before dipping his finger in wine and flicking it at Stiles.  A drop of wine, trails down Stiles’ jaw, dripping off at his chin, as Derek tries so hard to hold back giggles, not succeeding in the slightest.

Stiles quirks a brow.  “Oh, it’s on, buster.”

Goofing off with Derek in the bistro that his parents built with love, feels like something magical.  Stiles has left a little part of himself in the building, and in the owner's heart.  

Stiles knows that helping people isn’t just a job to him, no matter what he says to the contrary.  Sure he gets paid to do it.  But he honestly enjoys it.  Fixing damaged lives, and putting pieces back together again.  

Stiles will go back to New York, and he’ll get a few days off, before he has to fly to some other part of the world to clean up another mess left by another superhero, and he’ll love every single moment of it.  Because that’s who he is.  And if in the evenings he can go back to a hotel room to video chat with a guy he really, really likes, in a high school note passing circle yes or no do you like me sort of way, well, that’s just the icing on the cake.

**Author's Note:**

> If you want, you can vote for us [here](http://www.poll-maker.com/poll774626x7A844CF2-31), we're group 13 - The Sunny Squad!
> 
> Leave a comment if you like!


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